


sorry, tommy (and other lies)

by Anonymous



Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: M/M, cw pure self indulgence, lord forgive me for this shit is in second person, manipulative wilbur pog
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-30
Updated: 2021-01-30
Packaged: 2021-03-16 06:35:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29077956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: he’s come to complain, that must be it. to throw an extra petty insult your way, to add one last point to the evening’s sales pitch for domestic terrorism. whatever it was he wanted, the days events had left you tired and irritated.   you had a goddamn right to ignore him, he could take it. but then he speaks, and suddenly it’s dread, not annoyance, that keeps you from facing him.“you used to love me, tommy.”
Relationships: Wilbur Soot/TommyInnit
Comments: 3
Kudos: 63
Collections: Anonymous





	sorry, tommy (and other lies)

one thing you’ve come to find during your time in the dreary ravines of pogtopia was that arguments with wilbur were becoming more and more unbearable. what was once brotherly banter had snowballed into frustrated and disjointed tirades thrown back and forth at one another. the exile from l’manberg had obviously left deep wounds in both of you, and the differences in how you each treated those wounds (or didn’t) was becoming increasingly evident. 

these arguments were becoming much more frequent, and usually ultimately resulted in you retreating to your room, too agitated and angry to continue indulging him. 

tonight was no different.

this time the catalyst had been some dumb comment he had made about tubbo and schlatt and "the pitiful state of l’manberg" that just rubbed you the wrong way. you stood your ground the best you could, like always, but it wasn’t long before stinging remarks and cutting monologues were being exchanged back and forth, like always. the evening had ended with you trudging off to your room mid-conversation, exhausted and angry, like always.

he got the last word every time, anyways. it was all just a game to him, and he consistently came out on top. 

it had been hours since then, and here you are, in bed, muttering curses under your breath and wishing you would finally fall asleep and get some rest for once. the first indication that this wasn’t going to happen was the soft echo of footsteps that made their way towards your room. your suspicions are only confirmed as your door slowly cracks open, light pouring past wilbur’s silhouette and into your room. 

he makes his way over to your cot quietly and sits, mattress sinking under his weight. you stay on your side, stubbornly facing the wall with your back towards him. he’s come to complain, that must be it. to throw an extra petty insult your way, to add one last point to the evening’s sales pitch for domestic terrorism. whatever it was he wanted, the days events had left you tired and irritated. you had a goddamn right to ignore him, he could take it. but then he speaks, and suddenly it’s dread, not annoyance, that keeps you from facing him.

“you used to love me, tommy.”

he sounds… hurt. genuinely hurt. your throat suddenly feels dry and lumpy. his fingers brush gently through your hair.

“all those years ago... you used to miss me so much whenever i travelled outside l’manberg. you’d cry and cry at night each time i left. it’s like you thought i wouldn’t come back. like i was leaving forever,” he chuckles dryly, and you shut your eyes, _hard_.

“god, i mean even tubbo didn’t cry like you did.” 

your face feels hot. why is he telling you this? 

“but the best part,” he continues, voice brimming with hushed amusement, “was that you’d get angry at anyone who tried to comfort you. jack told me you’d always shove him or fundy away if one of them tried to calm you down.”

you swallow, eyes fixed wildly on the wall in front of you, unable to think and unable to speak. his hand moves from your hair down to your arm. it feels white hot.

“and i’d like to think,” he pauses. “i’d like to think it’s because you knew they weren’t who you needed. they weren’t _me_.”

his voice is alarmingly sober. he leans down until you feel his breath brush ever so slightly against your neck. his soft brown hair tickles your cheek, and you’re frozen still. he pauses again before delving into a whisper that reeks of unmistakable malice. a whisper that makes your insides burn.

“ _that’s how much you used to love me_.” 

the aching silence returns, and you feel utterly crippled. this wasn’t a side of wilbur you had ever expected to find yourself the target of, not in the slightest. so all you can do is lay there paralyzed, completely at his mercy. he could pull out his sword, go straight for your throat, and you’re pretty sure you still wouldn’t be able to move. _shit_. he wouldn’t actually do that, would he? you suppose he has plenty reason to.

after all, _you_ were the one who walked out on him. _you_ were the one constantly opposing him. _you_ were the one who caused him this pain. you’d be stupid not to see how at the end of the day, you were betraying him. and for what? a city of people who exiled you from their walls so quickly, so gladly? you’d trade _that_ for your own brother? if _you_ didn’t deserve a blade to the throat, then shit, no one did. you swallow again. your voice comes out shaky and small.

“...are you gonna kill me, wilbur?” 

he retracts his hand from your arm at that. 

“what? oh god, tommy, no. why on earth would i do that?” 

and then it’s too late, and before you can stop it your eyes well up and your shoulders start shaking, and suddenly he’s lifting you up by the arms and running his hands over your face as hot tears stain your cheeks. 

“wil, i-” 

“shh, shhh, it’s okay...” 

you look down at your lap pathetically through bleary eyes, shuddering, trying to choke out any words of apology you can. he just shakes his head and holds you, in a way so reminiscent of a parent consoling a child, a way that only makes you want to crumple into yourself further. 

and suddenly, before you know what’s going on, he nestles his face into the side of your neck and presses his lips against the space under your ear. then against your cheek. then under your jaw. you just keep crying as he continues, kiss after kiss against your wet and no doubt redden face. he moves down to the crook of your neck and starts to suck and bite at your skin, gently at first, and then more and more eagerly. it’s all too much for you. 

“w- wil?” you squeak out. 

he finally pulls away, and your eyes meet. his expression has never been more sad or forgiving or pitying and it all feels like a punch to the gut. your head is spinning when his lips connect yours, rough and chapped and warm. you only cry harder, wet sobs escaping your lips and passing directly into his. his mouth feels like fire, burning and eating its way through your skin, eroding the sense of self you’ve prided yourself on for so long. 

you don't know when you ended up in his lap. you don’t know when he had snaked an arm around your waist, or pushed his tongue into your mouth, or gotten you to whimper and whine under his hands. it’s a struggle to keep up with your own physical sensations, let alone auditory, but you manage to catch the words he mutters to you between the rushed and messy kisses. 

“i’m sorry, tommy, i’m so, so sorry. i know how hard it is. i know how much it hurts.” 

he’s lying. he’s lying to you, tommy, he must be. 

“but you just have to give it up.” 

he's manipulating you, and you’re an idiot not to realize it. 

“you have to let it all go, tommy.” 

why are you letting him do this to you? why are you holding onto him? 

“because then you’ll have me. you’ll have me, baby boy. just me.”

your ears are ringing with the sound of his voice long after your tears had slowed to a halt, long after you had laid down side-by-side on your cot in silence. he had gotten the last word, alright. by a fucking landslide. no doubt about it. 

when you finally fall asleep, the world that stretches far above the sorry ditch that was pogtopia feels like an utter dream. 


End file.
